Beauty and the Beast
by Clar the Pirate
Summary: He was a vigilante superhero on a crusade for justice. She was just on her way home. They fight crime.
1. 00:05 to Belleknowes

_For Mertle. _

_I know I said I brought up social justice (oh so subtly) during our surpassing-lovely day together so that I could claim that it made perfect sense that I'm dedicating this story to you. But the truth is strong female first-person narration is now irrevocably linked in my mind to you and Elle (though I didn't succumb to the lure of present tense). So this one's for you._

* * *

_one_

The train I was heading to catch was the 12.05 to Belleknowes. Last train of the day.

The air in the subway station was fetid from the exhalations of hundreds of bodies that had passed through it, not that any of those bodies were in evidence now. It was with a decided and slightly unnerving lack of company that I approached the glass ticket barrier. I stripped off a leather glove to press my right thumb to the gate's identi-panel and keyed in the number of stops I wanted on the keypad next to it with my pinky. Practise had made the manoeuvre perfect, and doing the mundane little task with efficiency and elegance gave me a little buzz. Pathetic, yes, but it had been a crappy day.

The computer chattered to itself while it decided whether or not I had enough credit to deserve a ticket. The inane graphic on the screen above the i-panel showed a coin fluttering from a bank to a train. The coin, bank, and train all wore smiley faces. I glanced up at the camera over the gate from beneath a fringe of highlighter blue. It stared blankly, its little red light dull. In a nicer part of town that would have been a beurocrat's idea of an ever so clever trap. But east of the Erstwhile River, in a subway station where the stuff scribbled on walls couldn't be confused even by the most poetic mind with words of a prophet, it just meant the camera was broken and nobody cared enough to fix it. Comforting thoughts for a girl on her own, just past midnight.

Finally the computer made up its mind with a chirpy ping and a green smiley face. It never failed to astonish me, the faith people put in the power of two dots and a curvy line. Are we really so starved for affection that inanimate objects – worse, images created by inanimate objects – are forced to smile at us.

The glass gate slid aside to let me onto the platform as the train blasted in and wrenched itself to a halt. As I got on the train, the scent of stale sweat and unwashed upholstery peculiar to the enclosed spaces of public transportation assailed me. I sat on a seat directly beside the door, with my back to the corner and my right side covered by the clear plastic sheeting that funnelled passengers in during rush hour. I chose the seat because it meant that any would-be assailants could only come from one direction. There are some things you don't let run your whole life – hence catching the last train because that's when I want to go home not hours before – but, well, you know.

I was joined by a man with crooked teeth, neatly combed hair and a bottle green blazer over a yellow shirt; he chose the seat opposite me and one to the left. We happened to catch each other's eye and did the awkward here-we-are-existing-together nod of polite people caught together in a public place. His wry grimace at the absurdity of it was a mirror of my own so we shared a moment over that too. More to redirect my gaze than out of a particular interest, I picked up a newscast that had been discarded on the seat next to me. As the doors closed, another passenger wrapped in a trench coat and brimmed hat pulled low got on and padded to the opposite end of the carriage that swayed as we left the station.

The newscast's little LCD screen flashed up the day's headlines as it loaded the page it had been left on – City Rise news, the Treasurer caught in compromising positions with a lady of the night. 'Oh me oh my', says Sarah Somerville, immanent businesswoman of charming smiles and douchebag eyes, 'guess that means I get his job'. A local paper then, though I always hoped it would be one of the internationals: the stories were all the same but sometimes there would be an exotic animal thrown in. And speaking of exotic-type mammals.

The Crime pages blinked onto the screen, dominated by a photo of a lump of dishevelled clothing, flesh, and blood made lurid by the florescent orange, white, and blue of the police station sign that hung over it. The Beast, our very own resident superhero, strikes again. I didn't bother reading the story; the Beast's modus operandi was simple and unchanging. Take one uncaught offender, apply fists the size and density of hambones, deposit in front of nearest police station, and _voila_, justice apparently served.

I tossed the newscast at the seat beside me, but the train jerked around a tight corner and momentum had the reader clipping the edge of the seat and clattering across the floor. Crooked Teeth glanced down at it, smiled at me, and made a move to pick it up.

The train hit a bump and the lights flickered off for a heartbeat.

Then back on.

I felt heat. That was my first impression, the almost tangible brush of heat against my skin. My next was of size, big enough to cause a fluorescent eclipse. The late passenger hadn't seemed so big when he got on. He definitely hadn't moved like a man huge enough to now be comfortably filling the carriage from floor to roof, side to side.

"David Smythe." The way he said it had all the clip of a brass-buttoned drill sergeant, but his _voice_ – I mean, his throat had swallowed deep enough gravel to put Greg Brown to shame. It was the kind of voice I'd want purring at me between moody blues on a playlist primed to complement the rain in the dead of a stormy night. An appreciative shiver ran down my spine accordingly.

Crooked Teeth looked for a moment like he was going to try bluster his way out of the name, but the stranger stopped him. "I know who you are. I've hunted you down; tracked the scent you left on the bodies of your victims. I've come to deliver justice."

Smythe cowered a little, and I didn't blame him – we'd all heard rumours of the myriad of super powers possessed by our vigilante super hero.

If only that had been my reaction too.

At some point I'm seriously going to rethink this whole independent woman thing, because what my feet did then, without the courtesy of consulting my brain over the matter, was put me directly between David Smythe of the crooked teeth and the approaching Beast.

* * *

_If you don't know Greg Brown, 'Why Do We Build the Wall'__ is the one you want to be youtubing - and then all the rest of Hadestown._


	2. Round One

_two_

I had never seen a picture of the Beast, or really spent any time thinking about what he might look like, and standing right between him and his prey wasn't the best place to come by a first impression. He was big, but I've already said that. He stood over half a metre taller than me but that night but seemed larger with the violence of the hunt. His eyes beneath the brim of his hat, amber with blue shards splintering around the pupil, snapped from Smythe to me, still ferocious with hunger. If I'd been in control of my body, that's when I would have chosen to collapse to the ground in a quivering jelly, but unfortunately my well-suppressed survival instincts had kicked into gear and I stood frozen before a representative from the next rung up on the food chain.

"Get out of the way," the Beast growled.

I licked my lips and squeaked out, "I can't."

"This doesn't concern you. Move before I move you."

"Um, yeah," I nodded. "You see, I'm pretty sure that as long as I stay where I am. I can prevent a felony from happening. So I'm just going to stay. Here. Sorry." Having your lungs lock up in terror makes forming complete sentences tricky.

The Beast must have been expecting an easy acquiescence as his eyes had already swung back to Smythe. Now they sharpened on me again, like claws flexing on soft wood despite my half-assed apology. "I'm the good guy here."

"Actually you're the guy with multiple uncharged counts of assault and battery against his name – I mean, if you can believe the 'casts."

"Listen, little girl." Stepping out in the pigtails had been a stupid idea; the only people over twelve with blue pigtails were the kind permanently hooked into the internet and they'd all forgotten what outside even looked like. "This is for your protection, so you need to get out of the way so I can do my job."

My head bobbed up and down a couple more times. "Job, serious? You get paid for the stuff you pull?"

Something glinted in his eye and I couldn't tell if it was a sanity, humour, or rage. "Vocation, then. _Move_."

"I'm really not going to."

The Beast took one deliberate step towards me but my feet refused to budge. "This man you're protecting, this David Smythe, would you like to know what he's done?" he purred, sending another chill tripping down my spine. "He's a rapist. Three victims I know of; I can give you their names if you like. And if I have his MO correct, you would have been next."

I looked over my shoulder at Smythe. His face registered terror but not the knee-jerk disgust and denial of an innocent man. My gut turned over once and dropped to the floor. "I really– I _really_ wish you hadn't done that," I told him, "because it makes doing the right thing that much harder." I turned back to the Beast. "I'm not going to let you touch him. I want you to go over and hit the panic button, and we'll go straight to the police station, and he will be arrested, and that's what we're going to do."

I didn't even have a second's grace before the Beast grabbed my arms and lifted me bodily off my feet to put me to one side. I clutched at the sleeves of his trench coat and tried very hard not to think about the pinpricks along my biceps being made by claws. He swung me to the side and let go, but I clung to the thick fabric. Damn stupid principles.

"I'm not gonna let you."

"_Why?_"

The ferocity of the question he flung at me had me tripping backwards, my sneakers slipping out from under me as I lost balance. The suddenness of my whole weight hanging from his coat-sleeves didn't move him an inch. My fingers felt the burden hella keenly, not so him.

"This isn't justice," I answered as best I could under the full force of a predator's attention.

"Justice? Do you want to know what _justice_ is?" His face, his teeth, eyes, were so close to mine. "Justice is me ripping off his cock and ramming it down his _fucking throat_."

"And what happens next time? When he wants to feel the rush of power and control and sex again, only this time he's pissed because he's mutilated, and you think he's going to take it out on _you_ – a beast three times his weight with super-human strength? There are worse things that can be shoved into a woman's body."

The Beast snarled. "The next time he gets an urge, he'll remember that I beat him within an inch of his life, and that I will find him again."

"There's over four million people in this city, a few thousand felonies every single night. You can't be everywhere and now he knows about the scent thing."

"I could drop you like a bag of trash in the Erstwhile," he growled, his claws curling around my arms.

I swallowed and couldn't force another word out of my throat. This was without a doubt the stupidest thing I'd ever done. We stared each other down and hostility corkscrewed until my lungs whimpered from lack of breath. How long, I wondered, would it take before he forgot all the fine principles I was certain he had about hurting females?

The Beast blinked first. Tension dissolved into thin air. My mind tottered in a dizzy circle, collapsed in a heap, and did whatever is the mental equivalent of putting head between knees.

Lifting his arms and me with them, the Beast grunted, "Would you let go of my coat-sleeves? You look ridiculous."

Glancing over at Smythe, I was relieved to find that he had realised the least painful way for him out of the situation was through me. He hadn't moved, just watched us with scared eyes. "Not 'til you promise that you're going to get him to the police unharmed."

The Beast looked at me for a long moment, then shrugged. "Yeah, whatever."

It seemed that was all the assurance I was going to get. Slowly, I put both feet flat on the floor and eased my stiff, sore fingers loose. He didn't immediately jump on Smythe so I walked backwards on knees seriously considering the advantages of buckling beneath me, and made it to the panic plate without taking my eyes off the Beast. My fingers reached out and hit glass; I swore under my breath.

"Um, does anyone have like, I don't know, something heavy and pointy – I need to break the glass."

Smythe looked nonplussed but began searching his pockets; the Beast, I swear, rolled his eyes before he sauntered over and reached around me to tap the glass with one claw. I was surrounded for a moment by heat. The glass shielding the panic plate cracked and fell into round-edged pieces over the buttons, one for each emergency service.

"The blue one with the orange badge-shape is for the police," he reminded me, articulating each word slowly.

"I'm not actually stupid."

"Could have fooled me."

I ignored him and hit the blue and orange button. The train immediately took off at twice its usual speed to the next stop nearest a police station. I staggered and he caught my elbow to hold me steady, glared when I flinched. Hoping I wasn't being too obvious about it, I slid loose from his grip and took a seat, still keeping myself between Smythe and the Beast.

* * *

_One of my interests is what exactly is justice? You don't have to agree with even a single thing that's said in this story; I just want to engage your brain. And if you make me a good argument you might find yourself paraphrased in a later chapter, fair warning._


	3. Justice is Served

_three_

There was a moment of silence before David Smythe decided to push his luck. He tried to catch my eye and smile. After ten seconds he gave up that course of action, and leaned over to me until I could see the dandruff in his hair. "Hey, listen. I just wanted to thank you for stopping that guy. I think he's insane, eh?"

"Serious?"

"Yeah, I don't even know what he's talking about. He just came out of nowhere. And you ..." he leant even closer, "I think you're amazing." I think my skin crawled.

"No, I mean, serious, that's how you're going to try play this?"

"Play what?"

"This. This whole whatever this is. I have a lot of problems with the way the Beast operates, but his information's generally accurate. And I have checked."

"I didn't do–"

"Listen, this little abortive attempt at manipulation is really not making me warm to you."

"I'm _innocent_."

"Dot Chambers, Coral Grant, Sandra North," murmured the Beast from the seat opposite. It was amazing his voice, an avalanche of velvet boulders – if, you know, that wasn't as impossible as it is ridiculous.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Symthe yelled.

"Okay, it's alright," I said placatingly. "I apologise. You've the right to be innocent until proven guilty."

"He's guilty."

It was difficult to tell beneath the brim of his hat, but the Beast seemed to enjoy the glare I threw his way. He lunged at me and I jerked back in my seat before I realised he was faking. His laugh was all kinds of infuriatingly superior.

"You know, Beast, last time I looked you weren't a twelve-person jury of peers so how about you stop trying to antagonise the situation? Mr Smythe, I think you've already figured out that, innocent or not, going peacefully to the police station is your best option – so let's just sit here quietly for the next thirty or so seconds, okay?"

We did, and were still silent when the train ground to a halt at the nearest stop to a police station and we all disembarked. There was a bit of a scuffle on the platform as the Beast tried to get in the middle of our little trio but Smythe wouldn't let him. He settled on stalking behind us within an easy arm's reach.

It was so long after rush-hour that getting off the platform required us to 'print our way through a single gate, another logistics puzzle in the making. The omnipresent smiley faces beamed at the lurching dance of Smythe trying to get through first and being hauled back by the scruff of his neck. A consensus was reached that I would lead the way. On the other side of the barrier, pulling my left glove back on, I noticed with interest that the Beast didn't put any digit to the i-panel but slipped through behind Smythe. Did paws not have fingerprints or did he have something to hide? Mr Superhero caught my speculative look and his lip slid up in a silent snarl to reveal a razor-sharp canine.

"I didn't say anything," I protested. "But if you want me to, I could make a passing remark on the fact you're lucky they don't check the cameras unless they have a reason, and that someone your size didn't get stuck in the gate."

"You have a crazy brain, little girl." Like a living, breathing superhero could talk.

We straggled our way through tile-lined tunnels and another ticket gate, the Beast's hot breath on the back of my neck making the fecund air feel even closer, but eventually we made it out of the underground and into the midnight blue street. It was full of muted conversations and half-forgotten violence spilling from curtain-drawn windows above us. Ahead the blue and yellow police station sign winked and stuttered. I stopped just before the halfmoon edge of the security light.

"Well, it's been an experience certainly. I won't see you guys 'round."

The Beast stopped my escape with a look. "Who's going to take him into the station?"

Could nothing that night be easy and simple? "You just do what you do. You don't need me," I shrugged.

"What I do is leave the criminal in no condition to run away, but this one's still walking and talking thanks to you so now would be the time for another one of your bright ideas."

"Walk him inside and hand him over, it's not biomolecular science."

He bared his teeth at me. "I don't do inside police stations; I'm more a love 'em and leave 'em guy. You go."

"Yeah, 'cause I've got the kind of authority the police trust when it comes to showing up with wanted criminals."

"You expect the rapist to walk in and introduce himself?"

"He has a name! Could you be any more of a dick?"

"Stop the bleeding-heart theatrics, and tell me what's your brilliant plan."

"Oh come on, you're the Beast and it's a police station. What are you so afraid of?"

And if you were thinking one David Smythe was being astonishingly uninterested in his fate, don't worry. It was right about then he jumped at the opportunity to screw himself over.

"Yeah, Beast, what are you afraid of? Besides little girls."

Smythe was pinned to the ground beneath one massive foot faster than he could blink.

"What did you say?" the Beast asked. And Smythe was stupid enough to fall for the mild tone, or thought he had nothing to lose.

"The big bad Beast gets pushed around by a little girl, wait 'til I tell–" He choked as the Beast crushed the air out of his chest.

"Stop it!" I shoved at him but I might as well have been trying to budge the Cynosure Bridge.

"I let him go and everything I've accomplished is undone." I felt his growl vibrate through my hands on his chest into my bones. "You know how many men I've put behind bars?"

"You said you wouldn't–"

"Listen to your girlfriend, Beast. She's hot _and_ smart."

The Beast dropped to one knee and punched Smythe in the face so the back of his head slammed against the footpath. With the focus and finesse of a surgeon, he proceeded to administer the justice of his fists. I don't know why I bothered to feel disappointed.

Once he was finished, he probably turned back to me – maybe to smirk, to say I told you so, or nod grimly like something important had been accomplished – but I was long since gone.

I have no time for people who can't keep their word.


	4. Round Two

_four_

It was a different night, couple later, and it was late again and I was out and about again. And there was a stone the size of the Beast's ego inside my shoe. Not that that simile would have come to mind then. I had more important things to worry about.

Leaning one hand against a wall for balance, I tugged the shoe off and jiggled it upside down. They were my favourites – purple rubber, three inches high with sinuously curved heels and the smell of fake strawberries infused into them. I sniffed appreciatively then stopped. In the industrial blankness of a street in Forbury there was something that didn't belong. It was deep and heady, spiced and dark, spoke of deep-rooted loyalties, long-lasting enmities, of land and home; it was the unmistakable scent of the Old Country. I looked up and found a cracked-open window above my head, then higher still to the building sign. Whitcliffe Papers. Didn't mean a thing to me.

I slipped my shoe back on, readjusted the strap, and pushed away from the wall. I moved off, hips swinging because heels never let them do anything else. The sassy clip-clop echoed off buildings and accompanied me down the street.

Another block and as I was checking my bag for the usb I had chucked in it, I heard the sound of footsteps behind me. Is there any other sound that's even half as ominous to a lone girl out on the streets? I picked up the pace like I was cold and working off the chill, the footsteps followed suit.

You get the idea; standard Hollywood fare. The pounding heart beat unnaturally loud in the quiet street, the shallow breaths verging on the pant of a hunted animal, looming shadows and the overwhelming urge to shout 'Look out behind you'. I might have enjoyed it if it hadn't been my heart putting a dent in my ribs as I looked oh so nonchalantly for the miraculous appearance of a benign crowd to slip into. But Forbury isn't exactly known for its company outside of nine-to-five.

I decided to screw it and make a break for the better-populated streets of City Rise, hoping my pretty purple shoes wouldn't take the opportunity to break my ankles, when as quickly as they had started the stalking steps stopped. I spun around and the street was empty, windowless walls blank and silent. The moon was a slip of a fragment but very bright, the air cold.

A sound came from the deep shadows that veiled a side alley. It was one I knew through paper-thin walls as the neighbours argued, across a bar as tempers spilled over like beer, as my head snapped back on my neck for a sharp still moment before the rush of pain. I knew I should go but I didn't move.

At length, a hulking shadow detached itself from the depths of the alleyway and moved towards me, the silhouette of a trench coat and hat.

"Are you alright, miss?" he asked me.

My lips were too dry but I smiled anyway. "Finer than spun sugar, honey. That was quite the dandy altercation you had yourself."

The Beast bent his head towards me intently.

I bobbed my head in a jaunty thank you. "It's a pity I don't have the time to show you just how much I appreciate it, but if you call–"

"It's you."

"It's me who? I don't recall–"

"The girl from the subway."

I made my eyes take a leisurely stroll over him and tossed my curls over my shoulder. "Now, honey, I'm sure I'd remember someone as ... _big_ as you. You're not the kind as would slip a girl's mind."

His heavy brow lowered, scowled. "You're dressed differently..."

"I can dress however you like, honey. Just tell me what's your fancy." I fluttered my fingers at him. He seized my hand and used it to pull me close. His nose pressed to the hollow where my neck met my shoulder. It was warm and dry, more cat than dog.

"But your scent is the same," he said.

"Well now, you're making me a mite uncomfortable; I don't hold with any kinky stuff."

"I don't know why your hair is red not blue, you saunter not shuffle, your breasts are propped up around your ears instead of hidden under a too-big hoodie, or why you drenched yourself in ten-credit perfume, but underneath it all you're still the girl from the subway."

"Honey, I can _promise_ you I don't take my business into the arena of public transportation. That's just beggin' to get yourself slapped with disorderly conduct."

In less than a blink of an eye, I found myself with my back against a wall, one wrist shackled above my head, and his hand (paw?) around my throat. "Don't play games. I'm the Beast, and what was it you said the other night? I don't make mistakes."

"I said your information was _generally_ accurate, no more." Stupid perhaps to let pride prick and defend myself, but it was pretty obvious the game was up.

"Are you following me?" His heated breath washed over my face, and there was something odd – I'd noted it the other day as well but couldn't put my finger on what 'it' was.

"No, I have better, not-useless things to do with my time. Are _you_ following _me_?"

"No, I just go where crime leads me. You seem to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or perhaps it's more than coincidence?"

I looked left towards the alley from which the Beast and sounds of a thorough beating – it couldn't really be called a fight – had emerged. The soft pads of his paw rubbed against my skin like leather. "What have you done with him?"

The Beast shrugged cooly. "Don't mention it."

"_Excuse me_? If you'd like to do a little mental review you'll notice I didn't thank you, and I have less than no intention of doing so now or in the future."

"What is your problem? He was drunk and stupid and I distracted him from that sound your shoes make."

"What sound?"

"That clippy-cloppy sound that says 'Hello, I'm a woman in cripplingly-high heels alone on the streets, and though I could ram this sucker through the top of your foot if I tried, I won't because I'm too distracted being unable to run away'."

My eyebrow rose all of its own accord. "I hadn't realised my shoes were so talkative – do my sneakers next."

"The point is you should be thanking me."

"You're right – gratitude _is_ the first thing that comes to mind when a stranger shoves up me against a wall."

Our eyes crashed together and held. I felt a lick of red-hot danger down my spine. His fingers tightened fractionally and then slowly I was released. The cold bit at my naked throat.

"Okay, I'm asking nicely this time," the Beast said in a quiet, rumbling voice that didn't fool me for a second. "What is your problem?"

I hunched my shoulders. "You've committed assault twice in my presence now, isn't that problem enough?"

"I _saved_ you."

"I don't know that you did because nothing had happened and I only have your word that something might have. Why should I trust you? What's the difference between the guy in the alley beating on someone and you doing it?"

"I'm a good guy, he's a bad guy. I prevent crime, he makes it."

I snorted. "Your reasons are too shallow and too quick. You stole one of his human rights."

"He gave up his rights when he decided to commit a crime."

"That's so simple-mindledly stupid, especially when he hadn't even yet."

"_Yet_ – yet, but he was going to. I could smell the adrenaline on him, the excitement, the hunt."

"What are you, the _thought police_? He was guilty of nothing but walking down a street while buzzed. And don't you bring me into it – I'm fine, I'm not even out of breath any more – all you've got is circumstantial bullshit. I mean it might be his birthday today he's excited about, and for a present you handed him his ass on a plate."

"Lady, you're even worse than you were on the train." And all of a sudden, I realised how loud my voice had risen.

"I have an opinion, alright, about justice and the system, and an abusive vigilante is like the polar opposite of that, whatever." Embarrassed now, I slid away from him. Having an opinion was one thing; taking on a beast, physically endangering myself to act on it, was a whole 'nother.

"Hey." Again with the lightening-fast moves, he grabbed my wrist and stopped me in my tracks. "You're not afraid of me anymore."

"Guess not. Blame it on the heels – they're killers on the ankles but do wonders for a girl's ego."

He looked at me hard enough to make me wonder if x-ray vision was one of his superpowers. "Who are you?"

"Every person in this city is tagged and recorded five times before breakfast. Surely you have a batcave somewhere you can find that out. Let me go please."

My arm was released slowly. "Or I could follow you to your home now."

"Serious? You want to just _hand_ me the opportunity to add stalking to my list against you?"

The Beast almost let me walk at that. I got one step before he demanded, "Give me a name."

I took two more deliberate steps then shot back over my shoulder, "How about 'Conscience'? It's got a ring to it," and sauntered off into the night.

And okay, yeah, maybe once I was a couple of blocks over and sure I was out of earshot, I did a little victory dance, whatever.


	5. Ceci n'est pas une Batcave

_five_

The Beast dropped himself into an over-sized, specially-made black leather arm chair next to the bank of computers.

"I want to know who she is."

The person sitting in the white-electronic glare spun her chair round to face him. "Business, or do you want her favourite movie and what chocolates she prefers?"

"Bite me, Sam."

Sam laughed, green eyes crinkling at the corners. "Just checking whether I'm using my powers for good or evil."

"I don't know what she is yet, except a mystery."

Sam hunkered down over the keyboard, fingers moving lightly, the ebb and flow of tapping calm and soft. She always played the keyboard more like a pianist than a hacker. It was a matter of pride, and a matter of the same sense of elegance that had her in a fine-striped shirt and blazer though there was no one but the Beast to impress in what was definitely, not really a batcave – if only because it was two stories up in a nondescript apartment building in Roslyn. A shot from CCTV of the girl on the subway flicked up on one of the higher screens. Sam leaned back, propping her elbows on her chair's armrests and steepling her fingers beneath her chin, to contemplate the image.

"At least she's a hot mystery," she decided.

The Beast said nothing, just glared at the screen.

"Not that I'm complaining. For a guy who gets to choose his own cases, it's not often there's pretty girls up there to brighten the place up."

"Pretty is beside the point; don't get distracted."

"Shame on me, all I was trying to get was a rise out of you. You were never an easy read at the best of times: tell me what you're thinking."

Sam swung a quarter turn to the right to look at him, but the Beast's attention was all for the girl, as if sheer force of will could make her turn towards them and spill her secrets. Just as Sam opened her mouth to ask again, certain she hadn't been heard, the Beast finally answered.

"I don't know what I'm thinking except I swear I know her from somewhere."

"You don't know for certain?" Sam asked, brow wrinkling in concern. When the Beast met someone they stayed met.

"It must have been before the shift. I don't know her scent but there's something familiar about her."

Spinning her chair around in a full circle, Sam guessed, "Bubblegum and ginseng?"

The Beast grinned, baring his fangs. "You'd be wrong. She smells of cinnamon apples and candle wax, and petrol."

"That sounds weird to me – is that a weird combo?"

"The petrol, yes; something's eating at her. What?" One of the computers had beeped drawing Sam's attention.

"Oh child, what have we here," she murmured before flicking a few more keys. "There was no one else at the gates, right? No one who could have 'printed then left?"

"What is it?"

"She has a name," Sam said, pushing one of the screens around to face the Beast, "Unfortunately, nine minutes later, she leaves the Belgrave Cresent station with a different one."`

The screen was split in two. On one side was a picture of the blue-haired girl from the subway next to the name _Sylvia Avery_, a website designer who worked in Belleknowes one stop away from her riverside apartment block. On the other was the image of another female who wasn't Sylvia Avery, and neither was she the syrupy, red-headed hooker from earlier. Katie King was an unprepossessing sales assistant who instructed aerobics in her spare time at a gym in Balaclava on the opposite side of town. She wore her wavy, blonde-highlighted hair back in a ponytail, and glasses that obscured her eyes enough that the photo should have been rejected by the id office – but maybe it was only something a person noticed if they were trying to tell if her eyes were the same colour as Avery's. The shape of the face was different; Avery's cheeks chubby and pink, King's lean beneath soft cheekbones. The hooker's had been high and defined, almost masculine, but that could have been makeup and the moon directly overhead casting down deep shadows.

"The hell is this?"

Sam winced. The Beast was not happy and when the Beast wasn't happy occasionally things got broken, by accident but still. "Someone hiding. Hiding in plain sight."

"Send me her address – addresses. And find the red-head as well. I am getting to the bottom of this."

"This isn't what we usually–"

The Beast turned. "So?"

"So nothing at all. Chill. I'm only pointing out the anomalous nature of it."

"Just do it, Sam."

* * *

_And we now see on our right the plot thickening very much upon us._


	6. Home Invasion is Not Sexy

_six_

I was just out of my end-of-a-crappy-day (I'd had a string of them recently, so sue me) shower, in pyjama pants and a singlet top with a towel turban on top of my head, when I noticed the Beast crouching on the fire escape outside my apartment window. He had the damn window open.

"Comic books will tell you that this is sexy and mysterious, with a subtle twist of danger for bite, but believe me it's just fricking creepy."

"I only know of three so far, but I'm willing to bet you have as many fake identities as you do fingerprints."

It was going to be a long night. "Kia ora to you too. You want a glass of something?" I asked, moving into the kitchen.

"I want to know who you are," his voice followed me.

I stuck ice cubes in two glasses and covered his with something irresponsibly alcoholic. Mine was water. "You ever think about how we still call them glasses? Nobody but the bubble-dwellers in St Clair have glass glasses anymore but we still cling to the name. Even worse, you're lurking on the threshold which dates back to when people still covered their floors in this thresh stuff and need a bit of wood to keep it inside. Actually, I don't think windows have thresholds, ignore that."

"What you're doing is illegal."

"Yay, then we're twinsies. I didn't even think to ask, can you drink out of a glass? You don't have lips as such."

"You're ignoring a perfectly reasonable question." No shit, Sherlock.

"And you're ignoring my right to privacy. Threadbare though this city may wear that right, it still exists."

I offered him his pseudo-glass with a saccharine smile. His nose wrinkled at the smell but he took it, and I watched him as he figured out a new path of attack.

"Are you hiding from someone? If you're in trouble I can help you."

"Sweet of you to care, but I can look after myself."

"That's what they all say."

"Did you?"

Our eyes caught and held. My breath backed up in my lungs and I felt an almost physical power pushing against me, trying to get me to cave.

He finally let me go and I had to take a sip of water to wash the sudden dry out of my throat.

"You shouldn't be allowed to do that," I told him. "So not fair. I don't think you were born an anthropomorphised animal with vigilante tendencies – would have been on the 'casts for one. So, stands to reason something happened at a later date that you couldn't stop though you definitely would have been the type of guy who thinks he has everything under control."

"There was an accident where I worked," he growled, hardly friendly. "It's probably reversible, but in the meantime I decided to put the strength and anonymity to good use.

"Sharing personal details with the mark to gain trust." I tilted my glass towards him in a toast.

"Analysing the situation to try and feel in control. I'm chatting – it's how you wanted to do this so I'm trying to accommodate. Did you grow up in the city?"

"Serious?" When he glared, I put up my hands to signal a truce. "Yes, I did. And yourself?"

"Yeah."

"Talkative, aren't you."

"Ditto."

There was a long pause, and a faint _tick tick tick_ as the Beast tapped his claw against the pseudo-glass.

"Did you catch the game last night?" he finally asked.

"Yep." Ugh, small talk. "Interesting come back in the final quarter but I prefer the classics."

"Which?"

"2011 World Cup, except maybe the final."

"So we're talking _classic_ classic. You're Old Country?"

"Or I just prefer when the people who played sport looked more human than humanoid."

The Beast looked at his paws and bit his lip with a canine that could puncture a small land mammal. He cast a dark, hulking shadow over the sofa he was too big to sit on. "Am I scaring you? I'm not trying to but it comes with the face." It came out genuinely regretful.

"You're not; I know you don't hurt women." He gave me look. "I'm surprised no one officially has mentioned the pattern – you target those who have or are about to perpetrate violent crimes against women. Only women. You pick and choose your justice."

"It's a big city, and as you said, I can't be everywhere. If you figured out that then you can figure out that I will help you if you let me."

"The only help I need is anonymity, and that's kind of hard when I'm being singled out by the Beast."

I was telling the truth for once and somehow he knew it. He nodded and told me to put his number into my phone. It was a cellphone number, an untraceable one going by the first three digits – same as mine.

"If you ever need me, call," he told me, and I murmured something to the effect but we both knew I was lying that time.

Damned if I didn't honestly believe that was the last time I would see the Beast.

* * *

_Kia ora = hello and/or thank you (literally-ish, 'good health'). _


	7. Loose Ends

_seven_

St Clair is the wealthiest suburb in the city, sprawled out across the hill looking over the sea, closest to the stars and first to get the sun in the morning. West of the Erstwhile, its right edge follows the concreted banks, straight opposite Bellknowes in fact – and isn't telling that there's nary a bridge between them, even thoughmost of the cleaning staff comes from our pretty little sinkhole. But all my habitual cynicism aside, it's my favourite place in the city.

As the city grew greyer, concrete and tarmac spreading 'til their edges joined, those with the credit for it went in the opposite direction and turned green. Fifty years ago, a moneyed garden would have been pruned and landscaped within an inch of its life; now you can't see the houses for the trees and the brush and earth.

Ngaio Wishart was among the wealthiest. Her land spreads for blocks in all directions and right in the heart is her glass(ish) bubble house with three-sixty views and earthquake protection like you wouldn't believe. Sitting inside those walls you could almost believe you were miles from any other soul, that the air is richer and cleaner and you're a better person for breathing it.

I put my middle right finger to the i-panel beside a tiny door in the eastern wall and moved quickly down the path which was being swallowed by undergrowth though it had only been a week since the house had been shut down. Nutrients they put in the soil or something; I never paid attention. Not my division.

I estimated I had about half an hour before security came to check up on me, but I knew what I was after. Wishart had her study on the north side of the house, in the executive wing as she liked to call it. In recent years, it was from here she had run Hart Pharmaceuticals and charitable sister-company the Wish Foundation, preferring the quiet embrace of bush and bubble over the glassy face of her skyscraper down in City Rise. She was rich, powerful, and tough enough to get anything and everything her way – only her head of security occasionally tried to order her around, and he did it very, very politely. Janet Wishart was hard-case.

The study was exactly as I had last seen it – the smell of the old lady's perfume was still in the air as though she had only just left the room. A large wooden desk, real wood, sat in the middle of the room, precisely aligned with a gap in the trees that led the eye right out to the sea, silvery in the sunlight. The exterior plasti-glass walls were brilliantly clear, and the interior ones were stained with swirls of abstract colour, motion and drive to balance the tranquillity of the view.

Moving to the desk, I slid open the covers to turn on the computer projectors and uncover the keyboard. Solid blue light sprung up around me. I pressed my left pinky to the tabletop and typed in the access code. The light coalesced into words, tables, and images, and I spun through them looking for clues. Wishart's diary proved frustratingly work-related.

_13.07.51. Board meeting 0800. Broughton 1035 offices. Iwi consultation 1400. Somerville rang._

Getting up too early as always and pushing herself too hard. Skimming the minutes for the scheduled meetings turned up nothing but routine business and I couldn't find any notes or recordings Wishart had made of her call with Sarah Somerville. That in itself concerned me.

_14.07.51. Board meeting 0800. Trustee meeting 1000. Stone 1200._

Interesting. Last I knew he was still comatose in a private facility – and Stone wasn't the type of guy to inspire sickbed visits like Ngaio did as head of the Wish Foundation. The next day showed up nothing I felt was particularly note-worthy, nothing I didn't know already. Then the last day Wishart had been heard from.

_16.07.51. Twin's birthday 1000 Ward 4C. Surgeon consult 1215. Donors' dinner 1900ff. Somerville rang._

Sometimes it's really hard not to jump to the conclusions your feet just itch to leap towards. I felt a flicker of shadow move over my skin, looked up and saw a branch waving, the sun sneaking through its leaves. Had it been moving before? This was exactly the kind of thing I needed to be taking more notice of, but I couldn't remember.

Speed was clearly going to have to be the better part of investigative rigour. The touch of the shadows as they swept over my face made my skin crawl. Quickly, I added a note to the 16th: _Catch St James up on Somerville calls_, wiped any background data that said when the amendment had been made just to be sure, then fished the usb I'd helpfully put in the top pocket of my bag for once out and stuck it into a port also hidden in the table top. Shifting anything that looked like it might be useful onto it took a few seconds, and my fingers tapped impatiently against the polished wood. A fluorescent blue smiley face popped up to remind me to eject my device before removal. I sneered at it.

For no reason I could name, my attention shifted two centimetres up, focussing on the wall byond the computer lights, and there was the Beast. Standing not five metres away, radiating menace, his dark fur gleaming in the sun, eyes like gimlets. I slammed the desk covers shut and the projections dissolved but it was too late. The Beast was already leaping straight at the glass wall.

* * *

_In case you're wondering, why yes, in this story I am making up for all the cliffhangers I didn't get to do with Anders._

_Iwi = tribe. _


	8. One of the Good Guys

_I blame practicum. Like legit, last night I dreamed about taking my year tens on a field trip - it's taken over my brain. Sorry, people who've never read one of my long stories while I'm writing it before, this is kind of par for the course._

* * *

_eight_

The wall split in the middle and slid back as it was meant to. The Beast soared through the gap and landed on the desk, claws digging notches into the soft wood. He was a bare centimetre from my face and I started back, tripped and fell over nothing like an idiot.

The Beast was on me in seconds, too big and too close. I tried to shove him off but he grabbed both of my wrists and held them down next to my face he was glaring at with his x-ray powers again. This was getting to be a habit, and not a welcome one.

"_Who are you?_"

But I had questions of my own. "How did you know the wall would do that?" He hadn't checked or braced himself, hadn't turned his shoulder to protect his eyes from flying glass. The number of people who knew that Ngaio had made sure she could be in her garden in seconds was limited to say the least.

"Because it's my business to," he answered straight up, and they say they can't teach an old dog new tricks. "Which begs the question: how do you?"

Well, if everyone were straight with everyone else it would be boring world, wouldn't it? "What do you mean, 'how do I?'. It did it right then; I was standing right here looking at it."

"One of these days, I'm going to drop-kick your crazy little head. How do you know that people _don't_ know about the wall? Who. Are – _No,"_ he breathed.

"No no_ no_."

His nose pressed again to the hollow of my collarbone, pushing my head back, his fur against my jaw softer and heavier than any human hair. I had no idea how he could smell anything when his scent was everywhere, pushy and hot.

He lifted his head and his eyes were piercing, yellow irises like wet gold with a dash of blue steel.

"Damn it, you're Corinth St James."

"Who?"

His claws tightened around my wrists. "Enough. You are Corinth St James."

"You can keep saying that but it–"

He got his face right up in mine again, blocking out the sun, and properly growled. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck but something finally clicked into place.

"Toothpaste," I said.

"_What_."

"You brush your teeth. When a dog breathes all over you, you smell everything they've ever eaten, but your breath smells of toothpaste."

"What about it?" he snarled, but I knew I'd never be afraid of him again.

"You're, you know," I told him, "human."

He levered himself off me onto his feet more roughly than necessary, and loomed over me trying to pin me in place with a glare. I ignored him and sat up, rubbing my tender wrists.

"Your brain is batshit crazy," the Beast said, and I shrugged. "You think you can distract me from the fact that you broke in, _in broad daylight_–"

"So did you! And none of the gate sensors went off so you must have jumped the walls. At least I had the decency to use the access codes."

"Pretty easy to do when you're Corinth St James."

"Listen Mr Beast-man-whatever. I'm _not_ –"

"Why are we having this conversation again?" the Beast snarled some more. "I don't make mistakes."

"_Generally accurate_." Suddenly sitting on the floor didn't seem like the best tactical position and I got to my feet. "I said you were 'generally accurate' and, trust me, I wouldn't have if I'd known you were going to keep throwing it in my face every opportunity."

"What do you get out of lying? Who are you afraid of? 'Cause it sure as hell isn't me."

"And that strikes a nerve, does it? One person in the city who doesn't cower when you stalk by, one person willing to call you on your bull so you can't hide."

"I have nothing to hide – I'm not a different person on each fingertip!"

"Really, the vigilante superhero doesn't have a secret identity? Forgive me if I'm less than convinced. Not being able to take off a mask doesn't make it any less of one. Want to talk mysteries? Fine. Let's talk about whoever the hell you are, or were."

His gaze sharpened on mine and pinned me to the spot. The room stilled, air charged like lightning was about to strike. "I am the terror that flaps in the night. I am the scourge that pecks at your nightmares. I am the combination lock on the vault of justice. I am the cloud that rains on your parade. I am the papercut that ruins your morning."

Outraged didn't even begin to cover it. "Serious, you are quoting _Darkwing Duck at me_? What, like you've got some tragic backstory where your parents died and the elderly nuns at the orphanage brought you up on the t.v. shows of their youth."

With a shrug, he said, "You recognised it." He prowled towards me, slow and lazy, and I didn't know I was moving until my back was hard up against the interior wall. His hands planted either side of my head, trapping me. "And now that I've answered your questions like a good little boy, how about you tell me _why you're stalling for time_?"

I tightened my jaw and said nothing. He grinned.

"Sweetheart, I hope you're not waiting for security to get here; you'll be waiting a _long_ time. And wouldn't they really only take your side if you were Corinth St James?"

"That's not my name."

He cocked his head to one side. "No change in heart rate – either you're telling the truth or a trained liar. Guess which one I'm leaning towards, Little Miss Self-Righteous?"

"Let me go. Now. You have no right to detain me."

"As you so love to point out, I think I'm above the law so I get to do whatever the hell I like. And trust me, I'm not letting you go, St James, until you've answered a couple of questions. Starting with..."

He leaned in so that his mouth was right next to my ear, breath scalding hot. Over his hulking shoulders, I could see the sky, blue and innocent as the world carried on without a care for me.

"Where's Ngaio Wishart?"

There was a stone in the pit of my stomach. I knew he would break his word when pushed but somehow I'd still been picturing him as one of the good guys. But didn't it make more sense if he was playing for the side with the douchebag eyes?

"Come on, sweetheart, I think it's time to take you back to the batcave."


End file.
